Impossibly
by shiseido7
Summary: Writer Bella Swan finds a muse for her next story in the gorgeous man she sees jogging the river trail. But will their paths ever cross off the page? Rated M for lemons
1. Prologue

_**SM owns the characters. Tori Amos owns "Raspberry Swirl". I own a notebook.**_

_and you need it just a little _

_and it's more than you can take _

_and it's more than you can fathom _

_and it's more than you can fake_

_-Fruit Bats, Need it Just a Little_

_The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of hell, and a hell of heaven_

_-John Milton_

* * *

A common misconception is that many great singer-songwriters like Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan wrote their best work while in a depression, adding fuel to the overly popular belief that suffering yields art. When asked, they will tell you their most profound work blossomed after recovering from a depression, for it is impossible to create when you are in the throes of darkness and despair – when you are sobbing on the kitchen floor, mentally and emotionally beaten. In this place, anything beautiful is choked out like a weed, and there is no hope for escape. Even the most gut-wrenching, angst-ridden art is not born in this place. It is born after, when you can, at least for a moment, pick yourself up off the floor long enough to grab your guitar or notebook, or whatever your medium may be, and reflect back on what being in that darkness did to you.

So I pick myself up off the floor and grab my notebook.

I really couldn't blame the whole of my depression on Jasper. I was the one who allowed him to control and affect me for so long. The thing about manipulation is that it is invisible and you usually don't know you're being manipulated until it's all said and done. Jasper's way was control on the sly, and he was a pro. In the end, I couldn't trust myself with him, never knowing whether my feelings were my own or just a projection of how Jasper wanted me to feel. Today, I don't mourn the loss of him as much as the idea of him. But most of all, I grieve for the years that I lost while under his spell.

So I find myself once again staring blankly at a thing I used to be best friends with. I scowl at my notebook and open the cover. Fifteen minutes pass, and for the third time today, I close it with a sigh and stare at the ceiling, cursing writer's block. Never underestimate the power of the mind. It can make heaven of hell or hell of heaven. And I live in my mind. As a writer, that comes in handy; as a children's novelist, it's almost a necessity. My livelihood depends on my ability to create fantasy worlds that are original, colorful, and yet, simple. Even though I long to be back in those places that I created, that others, and even myself, have escaped to, my mind just can't conjure anything new. _Not yet._ My editor is aware I am taking time off, and there is no immediate need to get anything published. This is a relief and also a crutch. I _want_ to be able to write again. I _want_ to sit down and create the whimsical tales that used to come so easily. The ideas used to come so freely I could hardly record them fast enough. I felt alive when writing. I felt a spark that I since have lost. And losing your spark is a scary thing indeed.

I go to the stereo to turn on some music for inspiration. It's Tori Amos. I normally find her haunting and clever, but today her poetry tastes bland and her music sounds sour. I sit back down and stare at the notebook. Ten minutes pass this time, and for the fourth time today, I close the notebook. Trying to force a story just because I'm a writer and it's my job isn't going to work. It occurs to me in this moment that maybe the reason I have writer's block is because I'm trying to tell the wrong story. For ten years I have been imagining what a dream world would look like to a seven year old, and then I would create it and lay it down on paper. Well, I'm not seven. I am envious because the reality of my world does not parallel the joy or peace I've created in my fictional worlds. It's been a long time since I asked myself what the world _I_ _want_ to live in looks like. What is it that _I want_? What would satisfy _me_?

A flash behind my eyes of a lean, muscular build springs to mind, and the vision is gone before I have time to focus on it. I delve back into that vision and take a closer look. Then I realize that it is not a vision at all, but a memory. Green eyes, bronze hair. I've seen him jogging on the river trail. He's methodical, constant. I see him at the same time on the same days, week after week. As if coming out of a fog, inspiration strikes, and I know exactly what I want to create. I have a perfect muse. A template for my fantasy. And this time my fantasy world will not be for children. It will be for me.

The mind can make a heaven of hell or a hell of heaven. I'm due for some heaven. As if on cue, Tori begins to sing "Raspberry Swirl," and in this moment, I find her poetry sultry and her music seductive. With the image of piercing green eyes and long fingers in my mind, I pick up my pen and begin to write…

**A/N: First attempt at fanfic so be gentle:) Lemons next chapter if you want to know where Bella's writing is going... Would LOVE your reviews.**


	2. Chapter 1

**SM owns the characters. Being new to fanfic I completely forgot some shout-outs with the intro to my story. Many many thanks to wisdomous for the encouragement and helping me grow a pair to post this thing. Also to weepwah for making sure my grammar and punctuation were solid. You two are amazing and I love you both.**

"Bella, it's been a week and we haven't had a single wine night. What the hell? Did you get a life or something?"

Rose is an unlikely best friend. I would never have imagined we would enjoy each other's company in a million years. She's everything I'm not, but we share one important trait: neither one of us take ourselves too seriously. Rose is arrogant, shallow, painfully blunt, and she just flat out doesn't give a fuck. To put it mildly, she's a total bitch. And I love her for it.

When residents of Bend, Oregon, mention "wine night," you can usually count on pinot noir, gallery walks, or at least a visit to one of the tasting rooms downtown. So many "Bend-ites" are transplants from Napa Valley who brought along that stick-up-the-ass attitude. They drink their wine with hints of pretention aged in oak.

_That's just not how Rose and I roll. _

Our version of "wine night" involves sweat pants, at least two bottles of wine, usually purchased at Costco, and a preventative Advil before bed. On good nights, the itinerary includes 80s movies, dancing in the kitchen, and fighting over left-over pasta.

"No, Rose. I assure you my life is as uneventful as it was the last time you took a shot at me." And it was uneventful, at least off the page. On the page, well, that was turning out to be much more interesting. I blushed at the thought and turned my head away from Rose so as not to invite questions.

"Oh God, tell me you're not hibernating in that shithole of yours, cranking out more J.K.-Silversteinian Mickey-Mouse kiddy lit. I thought you were going to take some time off from writing. I've told you a million times that shit is unhealthy. You get so wrapped up and, I don't know, _lost_. Sometimes I think you live more in your head than in reality. And you aren't doing those kids any favors either you know. Blowing sunshine up their asses won't help prepare them for the realities of this world. It's child-abuse, the way parents raise their kids these days, overprotecting to the point of retardation. Jesus, Bella, I feel constipated just thinking about it!"

"Yeah, being full of shit is such a new thing for you."

"Suck my dick already, I'm starving." And she plopped down into the sofa with her bottle of wine, not even bothering to use the stemware I had set out for her.

Rose is a bankruptcy lawyer in an economy that rivals the great depression. Trying to get her to understand why writing children's books is rewarding is a lost cause.

"No, Rose, actually, I've uh… changed direction."

"Changed direction? What, are you like, writing smut now?" She snorted, amused with her ridiculous accusation. I paused, trying to figure out how to explain. Before I could even begin to explain, Rose burst,

"Bella Swan! I don't believe it, you dirty little ho-bag." Rose cut herself off mid-rant, and her eyes widened, "WAIT. Tell me you haven't snapped and are now writing porn for kids! I really don't want to have to visit you in jail!"

"No, Rose. It's nothing like that. It's nothing. It's just something I'm doing for me, you know. Kind of as a release. A fun little distraction."

"And since when do you allow yourself that kind of distraction?"

_Since I saw flesh and bone molded into perfection with a lanky build and bronze wavy hair,_ I thought. Instead, I said, "Well, Rose, bring your worst merlot over and I'll tell you exactly how the _creative_ _juices_ began flowing."

* * *

The preventative aspirin saves the day once again. Rose and I had the quintessential girl's night following a rundown of my latest story line. Rose knows that I've never been very _graphic_ when it comes to fantasizing about men. That the hands I imagine touching me when I touch myself don't belong to anyone in particular. So I told her that this is changing for me. That there is a man so beautiful that I can't help but imagine his hands all over me. That fantasizing about him is oddly fulfilling. And that I feel alive now that I'm writing again. The depression that was so consuming only a short while ago seems so far away now that my pen is back on the page.

I'm heading to the Deschutes River trail, not because I'm planning to see my muse there, but because I always go there on Saturday mornings. Although, seeing him would be an added bonus, I admit. I discovered this trail 3 months ago by accident and feel like it has become my own personal sanctuary. Not too many people other than your avid fly-fishermen know about it. Most of the path runs right along the river and through the canyons. It is lined with pine needles, and the ponderosas and junipers are so thick in parts that you cannot see the sky. It stimulates every sense. The smells of pine, the sound of the rapids, the feel of tree bark and cool, damp stone, the sight of the blue-green water. The water here is so pure because it's mountain run-off, too cold for any bacteria to survive and make it cloudy. This is where I escape to write. I do not own a laptop, nor do I want to, much to the chagrin of my editor. Nothing against laptops, but the central Oregon sun is too bright to be able to work outside without glare. And besides, there are no places to "plug in" on the trail. No, I am quite happy with pen and paper.

I always laugh when I'm traveling and people assume I live in a wet rainforest climate because they hear I'm from Oregon. Truth is, only a narrow sliver of the state, the coastal side, is like that. East of the Cascade mountain range it's all high desert, tumble weeds, and sunshine.

It's chilly today. Fall is on its way. I am thankful that I remembered to grab my trusty blue wool scarf before I left. I find one of my favorite spots about two miles in from the start of the trail, by the footbridge. It's a slight protrusion of land and supports the only picnic table on the trail. It's private; you have to venture away from the trail to get there. I think one of the reasons I like it is because I can see everyone else on the trail, but no one can see me. I open my notebook and ponder why that appeals to me. I can watch, but no one knows I'm watching. _I like watching unseen_. Interesting. _I think I have a theme for today's writing…_

_I hear a knock at the door and hesitantly answer it. It's my neighbor. Let me re-phrase that. It's my fuck-me-with-a-stick-and-then-put-your-dick-in-it neighbor. I don't even know his name. But I do know he has green eyes, chiseled features, skin that looks like marble, and a body that leaves me speechless. I also know that the orgasms he brings me when I fantasize about him at night are the best I've ever had. Too bad he's never been there in person to witness the pleasure he brings me. _

"_Hi." I greeted him, hoping above hope my voice isn't trembling._

"_Hi." He smiled and ran his hand through his hair awkwardly. "Uh, the water next door went out and I was wondering if I could impose on you and use your shower?"_

"_Oh, uh, yeah. I mean, sure!" I felt my checks betray me and flush as I stumbled over my words and led him into my apartment. _

_Holy shit. This man, this demi-god, is in MY apartment. He will be in MY bathroom. Naked. Damn bathroom walls with their hummingbird print wallpaper taunting me saying, 'Bella… guess what we're about to see that you won't? Nah na-na-na boo boo…' Fucking walls that CAN'T talk. _

"_Listen, I was just on my way out," I lied. "There are fresh towels in the linen closet. Help yourself." _

"_Hey, thanks. I really appreciate it. They tell me the water should be back on this time tomorrow." And with that he made his way into the bathroom and shut the door. I was angry that he shut the door. I hesitated, but only for a second. Right and wrong went out the window through the only door that mattered—the one he was undressing behind. I walked to the door and knelt before it. It was a thick, old wooden door complete with an archaic keyhole. I dared peek inside. I had to remind myself that the antique door may be thick, but it is definitely not sound proof, and I had to hold in all gasps, squeals, and growls at the sight before me. _

_I hadn't thought about the details of a man's body before. But in THIS man, I saw long and lean muscles. His skin looked like silk with just a touch of hair below his belly button. His arms were tanned, and as he reached up to remove his shirt I caught a glimpse of light, curly, masculine hair under his arms. He slipped his pants off his hips and fuck it all if he wasn't wearing anything underneath. Not being prepared for that surprise unveiling itself so quickly a gasp left my mouth. _

_I held my breath as his eyes darted towards the door, my hiding place, for a second before turning on the water. Recovering, I gaped at what I saw. _

_It's not like I've never seen a penis before but holy hell, I was getting wet just thinking about what this work of art gift from God would look like aroused, hard…and ready. _

_He leaned over to turn on the water, and as he was waiting for it to warm up, I was reminded of what I was doing. That it was wrong to peek in on him; I had to wake up in the morning and be able to look myself in the mirror and respect what I saw. _

_Or… wake up with him in my bed and his morning wood pressing against my wetness, my vagina thought. I told my vagina to pipe down so I could concentrate on the visual in front of me, as it was a fleeting opportunity. _

_I would have plenty of time to fantasize later. The water flowed like liquid glass over the silk of his skin, making it look like patent leather. Hmmm…Patent leather, like a whip…. _

_Bella! Later! _

_I focused on him again and the way the water rippled over the smooth planes of his body reminded me of the rocks in the river along the trail, so smooth from eroding water. He is stunning. The physical vision of my dreams. _

_Too soon the water shut off and, realizing that I was still kneeling approximately three feet from where he was standing, I tiptoed as lightly as I could across the apartment and out the door, praying that he didn't hear the floor creak. _

_&&&_

_The next day, same time, almost methodically, he knocked at my door. My heart leapt to my throat and I tried to control my breathing. Jesus loves me because hot neighbor boy COULD NOT be knocking on my door for what I think he's knocking on my door for, could he? _

_"Hello again. Guess what?" he said with a sheepish grin._

"_Hey, no problem," I tried to hide the all too obvious enthusiasm in my voice. "You know where the towels are."_

_I should have felt ashamed. What I was doing was wrong, an incredible invasion of privacy. But I got away with it once and didn't have the strength to stay away from him. I assumed the position at the keyhole and felt the heat flare through my body in anticipation. _

_He looked in control and powerful; his movements today were deliberate and slow as he removed his clothing piece by piece. He turned on the water and paused before stepping in, as if he was deep in thought. He looked pointedly towards the door, right where I was kneeling, as if he knew I was watching. But it had to have been a fluke, because he couldn't possibly know. He just couldn't! _

_I felt myself relax a little as he stepped into the shower. The repeat show was as good as the first: I watched him lather up and run his hands through his hair and wash his face. From there his long fingers ran down the toned planes of his stomach and wrapped around his biceps as he washed his arms. And then his left arm braced against the wall as his right hand lowered and grasped his cock. I guess I was paying too much attention to how his hands were moving across his body to notice what was stirring below and I was abso-fucking-lutely losing my shit. _

_His head tilted back and his eyes closed as he gave himself a few long strokes. I was mesmerized, taking in every detail and using the rest of my mental capacity to fathom how that cock would feel pounding inside me. My mind ran wild with images and sensations…I barely noticed when he got out of the shower and shook his head, leaving the water running. Water droplets scattered from the thick waves of hair. Instead of going for the towel that was hanging right by the shower door, he disappeared behind the sink, around the corner and out of my view. _

_It was quiet for several seconds. If my mind was working properly I would have been wondering what he was doing and why he left the water on. But my mind was engaged elsewhere, still dazed from the water, the naked skin… _

_The keyhole went dark. Before I had time to panic, I heard the door click and the hinges creak. My stomach dropped to my feet and the room started to sway as the door burst open. My breath caught as his emerald eyes held mine with an intensity that was frightening. I had been busted and was rooted to the spot, not even capable of uttering a bullshit excuse as to why I just happened to be kneeling outside the bathroom door. _

_Not able to break eye contact, I felt a fresh tingling between my thighs and was growing wetter just by holding his glare. Just like there is a compulsion to laugh when being lectured, my nether regions were betraying me. I should be mortified, not turned on. _

_Why am I still standing here? Wait…why is he still standing here? Why isn't he yelling at me for being a perv and covering himself? _

_Ouch! His grip on my wrist was fierce, matching the burning expression in his eyes. And there, I saw nothing but need and desire. His tightened his grip on my wrist as he pulled me into the bathroom. His eyes never broke contact with mine as he cornered me into the shower. _

_I gasped as the water hit my back. I shivered as hot trails of water trickle through my clothes, running down the backs of my legs. He pushed me back until water cascaded over my head, over the front of me, soaking my thin tissue t-shirt. My nipples tightened in response. I reflexively closed my eyes to keep the water out. Our eye contact was broken, and I knew in that moment that all bets are off. _

_I heard a splash of water and feet moving beneath me and felt his hands cup my breasts and tweak my nipples through the thin, wet fabric. He pressed his warm, hard torso into mine. I felt his hard length push into my core and he began to devour me. Lips met lips, tongues thrashed with tongues, and hands groped for skin. _

_I moved my hands away from exploring his body long enough to wipe the hair out of my eyes that was plastered to my face so I could see him and savor the thrill of watching him touch me._

_"Eyes shut, Bella," he commanded in a gruff voice. "You've watched enough."_

_I realized that this was both my punishment and my reward—he would not be gentle. I obeyed and kept my eyes shut and trembled with anticipation for what he would do to me next._

A branch somewhere above me snaps and startles the silence_. _Looking up from my notebook, I try to find the source of the disturbance. There is nothing to be found, so I shrug it off and turn my attention back to my writing.

* * *

A man named Edward Cullen with emerald eyes and bronze hair sits atop a butte overlooking the trail below and retreats before the pretty girl who has been the object of his fantasies for the past 3 months looks up towards the source of the noise and finds him out.

**A/N: EPOV next chapter. I'm really excited to hear from him! Are you? Would LOVE to hear your reviews.**


	3. Chapter 2

**You all are just too damn sweet. Thank you for your reviews! Shout-outs to wisdomous for pimping/cheerleading, and to weepwah for knowing a lot more about grammar and punctuation than I do. And to imdominating simply because I miss her and she used to say I looked like Britney Spears back in the day when that was a compliment.**

Buddy Christ belongs to Kevin Smith. Everything Twilight belongs to SM.

_No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed. –A.S. Byatt_

EPOV

I discovered her three months ago while jogging the trail. The first day I saw her she was sitting on the ground underneath the Read Market Bridge in an archway of the infrastructure, almost perfectly hidden. It was a fluke that I even saw her that day. Strange place to sit, I thought. Underneath the bridge, hearing all the traffic amplified above. It wasn't very peaceful, yet she was writing. How could she focus in all that noise when there was so much tranquility along the river? Maybe she was battling with internal noise, I thought. Maybe the screeching cars and roaring motors above drowned out the turmoil inside. She had that look about her. Her eyes conveyed deep sadness. Beautiful eyes, but flat, as if they used to spark but didn't anymore. My curiosity was piqued, wondering what this beautiful creature was doing writing underneath a bridge and it hasn't to this day dimmed. It was a fleeting moment; I only caught a glimpse of her that day as I jogged on my usual route.

_Would I see her again? Did it even matter?_

She's just a beautiful woman under a bridge, I reasoned. After all, how many random people did I pass on my jogs, or on the street, or in the supermarket? No, not just people. How many women like _her _did I pass?

_Beautiful. Mysterious._ I shook my head and chided myself. Typical Edward chasing his tail. Always having to unravel every mystery only to find disappointment, to find that the fantasy is better than the reality more often than not.

_Some mysteries are left better unsolved,_ I told myself bitterly.

As I jogged along that day, I tried for the life of me to put the mysterious brunette out of my head as she was sure to be a distraction.

It didn't work.

After that I saw her here and there. It seemed she was becoming a regular staple, on Saturday mornings at least. I'd notice little things, like how she'd dip her toe in the freezing cold river and laugh to herself at the shock. Or how she would compulsively tuck her hair behind her ears as she was deep in her writing. But what I was noticing most was how much I would look forward to seeing her. How rejuvenating it was to my soul to observe her cute little nuances and wonder who this woman was and what her story was.

People are predictable, but not her. People use the trail as a point A to point B to fly fish, or to walk their dog. They barely stop to take in the scenery. Most have ipods, tuning out everything around them. Some bastards even on their cell phones – _here_, surrounded by _this_.

It should be a crime.

As a geologist I am never bored by my surroundings here. I know the science behind how the lava flow came through here, carving the crevice where the riverbed now lies. The way the vegetation has evolved to inhabit the canyon, and how the wildlife have made this once desolate, inhabitable place its home.

She camped out here and made the place her own for the few hours she occupied it. She was not just passing through. As I made my laps I would come about the place I spotted her on my previous lap only to find her still there, still taking in the beauty, still writing, and again, two, four, six miles later. There was an aura about her, like a white fire, and I was being consumed by it. Every day I saw her it was getting harder and harder to not make myself known to her.

I have been burned so many times. Scalded cats fear even cold water. And I was a scalded cat. I don't read people very well. I thought I was pretty good at reading people, but lately, I've been off. I thought I knew what people, more specifically women, were thinking, only to be 100% wrong. My confidence had been shattered, and I wasn't keen on putting myself in that position again, where I could be hurt, let down, or embarrassed by the fairer sex. In my experience, women just wanted an attractive man to have on their arm. Someone they could dish to their girlfriends about. None of them saw _me_. So my relationships had been short, and I'd like to say sweet, but that would be a stretch. Tonja was the last in a long line to dick me over. The fact she spelled her name with a 'j' instead of a 'y' should have been a red flag. Seth tried to warn me about her. I've been best friends with him for a long time and it seemed to me like he could sniff out those things in people. I wished he could give me a read on the mysterious trail writer girl.

Until then I would just have to stick to my usual routine, smiling and managing a polite head nod if I passed her and leave it at that. It would be fall soon, and surely she wouldn't want to write outdoors when temperatures drop into the 50s.

Then the temptation will be gone, and I wouldn't have to endure it any longer.

It's been over three months now and the temptation is still here, personified, today donning a dark blue scarf that complements her complexion beautifully. The sadness that used to dominate her features has melted over time. She is sitting at the picnic bench, deep in thought once again. I am sitting on the top of one of the canyons the river carved out, off the trail. I like coming up here – it adds intensity to my workout due to the elevation, plus it provides the best views of the mountains. Her brunette waves catch the sunlight and she closes her book for a second and flexes her fingers and takes a break.

Every time I see her, it's like I'm feeding an addiction. When I don't see her I get anxious, and it makes me nervous. There's something about her that I just can't ignore. She cuts her break short as if she just thought of something important. I observe her writing, and she's so focused she doesn't appear to notice anything else. She smiles to herself at a private amusement and writes frantically. I would give anything to know what she's writing about. What captures her interest so intently. Sometimes she moves her legs back and forth, squirms in her seat, and chews on her pencil in a way that feeds into my fantasies. _What could she possibly be writing about to make her react in such a way?_

Having her on the path had definitely thrown off my workout routine. When spotting her I found I would spend more time than necessary stretching or tying my shoelace. I think I paid her attention because I thought if I looked long enough I would figure out what it was about her that was so mesmerizing. She was beautiful, of course. No one would argue that. But it was more than that. Then I realized that maybe it was a combination, no wait, _the _combination of all these factors that mesmerized me and that it was the uniqueness of her that was a fingerprint. Like she was imprinted on my brain and in my thoughts.

And I didn't even know her name. I wish I knew her name.

Her blue scarf is killing me. The wind is catching it, giving it a mind of its own as she scribbles frantically in her notebook, oblivious. How I wanted to reach out, unwind it from her neck and trace her collarbone with my fingertips.

Wait, is that a monogrammed bag she's carrying? I snap out of my trance. I have never been afforded so much as a clue to who this woman was in the months I've been watching her. I am one step away from bribing a cop to run her license plate number. I have a contact in the police department. I'm actually surprised I hadn't called in this favor to Charlie yet.

I am sitting just a little too far away to make out the initials. I grab a tree limb and lean out a little further to try to make it out.

…'_B'...is that an 'M'... and... 'W'?_

_SNAP! _

The branch breaks in half and, losing my footing for a moment, I scurry back to hide under a rock, literally and figuratively, hoping she doesn't look up and notice me watching her. She does look up, but I'm pretty sure I'm hidden. Although my heart is hammering so hard I wouldn't doubt if she could hear it. Deep breaths. Ok. So her initials are BMW. It's not much information, but at least it's more than I had before. Of course with my luck it's a monogrammed bag she picked up at goodwill and bought it because she liked the color or something.

Once my heart rate finally gets back to a normal rhythm I make my way back down the side of the canyon to finish my jog. As I reach the clearing I notice her standing at the bridge, watching the rapids below. She is stunning. I stop jogging so I can observe her. The wind catches her hair and blows a tendril across her face and I find myself mesmerized yet again. Our paths have crossed before, and I have always acknowledged her in a polite way, never giving anything away. With every pass it becomes harder and harder to jog away from her and not stop and do something, anything, just to look at her face close up. I never stop looking at her as I cross the bridge, getting ready to pass her. She turns her head just as I'm approaching and for a brief second our eyes lock.

_And then I wink at her_.

I winked? I fucking winked? What the fuck, Edward. Where did that come from? Who does that besides the Fonz? I want her to be attracted to me, not think I'm a cheese dick. And to think I was concerned about the fairer sex embarrassing _me_.

Smooth.

I think I'll go home and grow my cop-stache and practice my "Buddy Christ" pose for next time.

_Next time._

Ok, Cullen. That was two slips today. First with almost getting caught when the branch broke and then with the wink. You cannot be so careless. Next time you will have to have better control of your cheese dick tendencies. You cannot afford to lose control around her. Next time you encounter her, you will not make an ass out of yourself.

_Next time you will talk to her._

BPOV

The sun was too bright from right overhead, and it was time to go into the shade. I closed the notebook and stood up stretching my torso, cramped from hunched over the picnic table for so long. Being outdoors this morning, trudging through the brush and the dust on the trail made me feel gritty and in need of a shower. I smiled to myself thinking of what I'd written today. I think I would enjoy my shower today more than usual and was eager to get home. I packed up my stuff and made my way back to the path.

I stopped on the bridge to listen to the rapids for a minute before heading to my car. It was under this bridge where I first started writing. Not exactly the material I was writing now, I smiled to myself at the memory. At least I could smile about it now, I thought. I was not in a good place when I started coming here. I camped out under the bridge to disappear and drown in the noise above, and in my own self-pity. My writing definitely reflected that. Fast forward three months and here I stand above, on top. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and that's when I spot him. He is on the other side of the river about to cross.

In the past, when our paths have crossed, I have always diverted my eyes. I have always watched him from afar, and I don't think looking him in the eyes would be a good idea. The eyes are the window to the soul, after all. He would see through me and somehow know that I wanted him, desperately. Surely I could manage a polite head nod without giving myself away, right?

Ok. Here he comes.

I raise my head in his direction and am momentarily stunned by just how damn beautiful he is, when he does something I'm not expecting at all- _he winks_.

_Did that just happen?_ He jogged past and I was momentarily stunned by the heavy scent of man and sweat. And then he was gone – thank God. An idiot would be able to see through me now as there is nothing subtle or casual about my expression.

Polite head nod my ass.

Gushing like a school girl, grinning from ear to ear, I replay the memory over and over, praying that I wasn't imagining it.

_He winked at me. _

**A/N: Hope you liked hearing from Edward. Next chapter they meet. Woot! :) Reading reviews makes my day...**


	4. Chapter 3

**Sorry it took so long to get t****his up. My computer crashed for one thing, then I got distracted by other things but in totally good ways:) As always, many many thanks to weepwah, wisdomous, and imdominating**

Give me peace, love, and a hard cock

-Tori Amos

* * *

_The silence was deafening and the blood boiling through my veins was making my ears ring. There was nothing else except me and him. The water pouring over my clothed body from the shower was no longer a shock. The temperature of my skin and the water were the same now. I couldn't sense whether I was wet or dry, warm or cold. I just was. And he just was. Eyes still shut, waiting for his next command, we were at an event horizon, the bubble about ready to burst. _

"_Open your hand for me, Bella."_

_My eyes were still shut. The hand that I had unconsciously balled into a fist to keep from squirming loosened and all five fingers expanded out in offering. It was then that I felt the weight of his arousal being pressed firmly into my palm. _

_His hands closed on top of mine, and he curved our hands around his length. I could feel his blood pumping hot and fast into his rigid-hard cock underneath my hand. _Now_ I could sense temperature. I felt wet. And I felt heat. Having my sight taken away from me meant all my other senses were heightened, and I held movement and life in my hand. _

_He began to guide me, moving my grip from the base to his tip in a twisting motion. With every twist he'd moan and my knees would buckle. I sighed. _

_I had to see him, to look at him. But his firm grip on my other wrist reminded me that he was in control and I needed to obey. _

_My wrist twisted,_ _he moaned. My knees buckled, and I__ nearly fainted._

_I never considered the feasibility of spontaneous human combustion until now, but this experience would make me a believer. And I never believed in adrenaline rushes being able to explain unparallel strength, but I imagine if this torture goes on much longer I would snap my eyes open, shove myself into him until some form of resistance like the shower stall, wall, or floor stopped us and continue pressing until my teeth and nails made permanent marks in his flesh__._

_My wrist twisted. He moaned. __My knees practically gave out, and I __grunted._

_I grunted, part in frustration that I couldn't see him or do more than pump him and part because I was fully clothed, beyond turned on, and at the end of my rope. _

Twist

Moan

Buckle

Sigh

"_Tell me your name," I whimpered._

Twist

"_Uhng..Bellla…__it__ feels so… oh fuck."_

Twist

"_Tell me your name!"I commanded, as my eyes flew open, only to find his squeezed tightly shut. _

"_Fuck", his breath hitched, "Bella, don't stop", he whimpered._

Twist

"_Tell. Me. Your. Name."I all but whispered._

I looked up to the clouds above, considering all the shapes they could be. I paused on the last line of my story for a solid five minutes, realizing my story couldn't go any further. I didn't know his name. I guess I could make something up. After all, this was my fantasy. My creation. Aiden, Tom, Max, Nick. All men's names. I could use any of them, but I didn't want to. Because this is my fantasy, I want to use _his _name. And I just don't have that piece of information.

I closed my notebook and walked a few paces to a flat boulder overlooking the rapids and climbed up. I rolled back onto the cool, damp rock and looked up at the clouds again.

They all had his face.

They were all _winking_ at me.

Was that just yesterday that he winked at me? I shut my eyes and considered how badly I wished I knew his name. How much I wish he'd talk to me. I can't write anymore unless I know his name. My story cannot continue without that piece. And I have felt so alive again writing, I cannot give it up now. It means too much to me.

I sat up from the boulder as the truth crashed down on me.

If I am unwilling to give up this story and see how it unfolds itself, I will have to find out his name. To find out his name, I am going to have to speak to him. At least long enough to catch his name. The thought made me nauseous and excited at the same time. I will have to draw his attention sometime when he's on the path and hopefully find something to say besides, "Hi, I'm writing erotic short stories and they star you. Can you please tell me your name with the correct spelling so I can write a few chapters in third person narrative? Thanks." Something else that occurs to me in that moment is the fact that, in order to speak to him, I will have to get over my fear of making eye contact.

Get over that fear now, in fact.

I look up to discover he is standing ten feet away, staring at me with a crooked grin on his face.

Shit.

I swing my legs around and sit facing him on the boulder, looking slightly beyond him, fidgeting with the hem of my scarf.

The fact I wasn't making eye contact didn't go unnoticed by him.

He took two steps closer to me then turned to look at the spot behind him where my eyes were focused.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he commented.

"I'm sorry?"

He chuckled at my confused expression.

"The Oregon Grape, it's our state flower," he explained. "Water draining through the rocks provides moisture and the rocks radiate heat to provide warmth, and that's how they survive here."

I must have been staring. Well, ok, I was definitely staring.

He smirked.

"They produce berries in the summer, which is probably why the beavers hung out here. Hung out a few feet away from where you were sitting, in fact."

His brows furrowed as he gestured towards a towering ponderosa pine that was, indeed, a few feet away from where I had been sitting all afternoon.

I looked over and saw with alarm what he was pointing at. The ponderosa next to the boulder I had been occupying had been whittled away at the base and looked like it could teeter in any direction with the slightest gust of wind. If it would have fallen to the east, it would have crushed me. Given that I wasn't technically on the trail, Deschutes County would not have been responsible for my demise.

"These beavers don't construct dams here," Edward continued, "but they cut down trees to feed on the nutritious inner bark. You can see where they have also gnawed off branches here," and he reached up to wrap his fist around a blackened branch.

I gulped, then faced him, "How do you know about this stuff?"

"I'm a geologist for the state and a naturalist on the side. My name is Edward." He held out his hand and flashed a brilliant smile.

Edward_. _

_Edward…_

My mind went into overdrive as I processed his name. Here I was, moments ago scheming how I could find out his name, only to have him show up and drop the missing puzzle piece right into my lap. I wish he was dropping other things, like his face, into my lap…

I realized he was waiting for me to speak, and I snapped back to the present.

"Sorry… I'm Bella." I put my hand in his and looked into his eyes. "Thanks for uh…saving me."

The warmth and strength of his hand sent a shock through my body. In a strange way, the fact that he was touching me bolstered my confidence. I squeezed his hand lightly in response and found the strength to look into those deep emerald eyes. When our eyes locked, I was taken aback by what I could only describe as resentment in his eyes. Then the look was replaced by charm as quickly as it came. I almost thought I might have imagined it. He released my hand, took a step back and ran his hand through his hair. An awkward silence ensued.

He chuckled and stepped back towards the trail.

"It was nice meeting you, Bella," he said in a lower, strangled voice. "I hope our paths cross again," and he smiled at me.

I bit my lip in response and smiled back. The way he said my name had me tingling.

* * *

2:33am

_Damn it all to hell. _Bella woke up tossing and turning. She was getting pissed. She writhed and squirmed in her sheets and rubbed her legs together to assuage the throbbing that was keeping her awake despite the late hour. _This is getting ridiculous. _She now was the poster child for unresolved sexual tension. And while in the beginning getting off by her own hand had been a relief, now it was just painfully lacking. She craved more, she wanted more. She wanted him to touch her. And not a hand shake. She wanted him to touch her _there._ And that wanting hurt her. Made her want to cry because of the impossibility that that would actually happen. He looked more like a Greek god than anyone had a right to and she was just… well, it was hopeless. Hopeless because she was ordinary and hopeless because she was sure now that she saw resentment in his eyes, she just didn't know why. She wanted to believe that he was interested in her, but it's clear now that he was merely being a good Samaritan by not wanting the tree to crush her. Oh, and how could she forget—she felt hopeless because he was a total stranger. Now, even the fact that he winked at her one day and talked to her the next didn't matter. It didn't matter because it wasn't enough. The giddiness that she felt in the moment had been erased. _It's like a gamblers addiction_, she thought. _You get a small payout and you are ecstatic until you think how much more you could have and then the greed and hunger take over. And if the next payout is larger, you'll want more still. Nothing will ever be enough._ She was scared that she would always feel this sexually frustrated until she had him inside her. He may talk to her the next day. He may not. Either way she'd be right back here twisting and squirming in her sleep, craving more. No, nothing short of having him inside her would satisfy her now. This meant she would die before being fully satisfied. Her last thought before finally dozing off was wondering how she would survive this storm raging all around her without actually having him.

3:10am

_AARRRGG! Why oh why can't I get this man out of my mind?_ _That's it_, she thought. I will get online tomorrow morning and order a gigantic dildo fake-plastic cock vibrator, and maybe that will satisfy me enough so I can at least get some sleep.

4:05am

_Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK!!_

* * *

5:40pm

_Well that was interesting. _Edward reflected back on the conversation this afternoon with Bella. Of course he knew that she was in no more danger from the tree falling over than he was of finding a jackelope on his jogging route, but she didn't have to know that. The beavers that did the damage were probably ten years gone, and it gave him the in he had been looking for. An excuse to speak to her without saying, "I know your license plate number by heart." He felt like that would have ended badly. She'd conclude he was a stalker or a savant, and he wasn't sure which he would rather have her believe at this point. But when he saw her sitting "dangerously" close to the not-quite-stable ponderosa, he couldn't resist. It was now or never, and he was feeling pretty confident, so he went for it. She was flustered by his unexpected presence which made him feel like he may have redeemed himself for the Buddy Christ wink yesterday. What he wasn't prepared for was her touch. How it would _feel. _The force of it scared the shit out of him. He hoped the panicked expression was erased from his face before she noticed. But there is no question that he back-peddled as fast as he could. He felt like his hand was burned from her touch, and he had to get out of there. _So much for feeling confident._

11:48 pm

Edward was standing in front of his mirror practicing his "Buddy Christ" pose, and he decided that he would go to bed. He hadn't felt so turned around by a woman before. There mere presence of her was so entirely distracting. He was walking along an icy cliff, in danger of losing his footing and falling head over heels. He wanted no complication or responsibility. Admiring her from afar was one thing, but becoming involved was another. And after meeting her today and putting a name with the face and putting a feel with the touch—well, he was in trouble. He brushed his teeth, climbed into his bed, and pulled the sheets up over his stomach. Putting his arm under his head, he stared up at the ceiling. He could still resist, he reasoned. He would just go back to smiling at her politely when he passed. Yes, he could do that. He didn't know her, and she didn't know him, and it would stay that way. They were just two people who happen to both like the trail, and their paths would likely never cross again. He would leave her alone.

2:36 am

_Shit… _Edward rolled over on his stomach and punched his pillow, accepting that for whatever reason, he could not leave her alone.

* * *

**A/N: So the next chapter is my favorite chapter so far. I hope you guys continue to read and review because it really does make my day.**


	5. Chapter 4

**Good morning everybody! I set my alarm to work out this morning, rolled over because, you know—screw that—then thought I'd post some fanfic instead! I hope you are all having great days. I'd really appreciate any reviews you might have for me. Even it's just a single line that reads "eh...your fanfic is ok". I am a review whore so just click that little review box at the bottom and give me something to chew on. Hope you like this chapter because I had a ball and a biscuit writing it.**

* * *

"Dude, why do you look like ass?"

Edward rubbed his eyes and looked up at his best friend.

"I didn't get a lot of sleep, Seth."

Edward shuffled into the kitchen, reached into the jar of coffee beans with his bare hand, scooped out a handful, and threw most of them with poor aim roughly into the coffee grinder, a few in the sink, and a scant few onto the floor, and hit "start." He didn't bother to pick up the strays. His hair was a ruffled disarray of bronze locks and he was barefoot, wearing a faded, worn tee shirt and drawstring boxer pajama bottoms. It was 11:30 am.

Over the whirring of the motor Seth called out, "I came over to watch the game on the flatscreen."

The motor stopped whirring. Edward put the ground coffee in the French press, set it on 'high'—a.k.a. 'needed it fucking yesterday' mode—and chuckled to himself that Seth felt the need to announce his presence to watch the game. It was commonplace for Seth to be there pretty much all the time, whether there was a game on or not.

"So seriously, you look like hell. What's up?" Seth asked, coming into the kitchen to grab a beer.

"I can't get Bella out of my head. I was tossing and turning all night."

"Who the hell is Bella?"

"Trail writer girl!"

"Ah, you know her name now? What did you say to her? Were you smooth? Did you flirt?"

"Well, the first time I made contact, I winked at her in what was probably a 'Buddy Christ'-like fashion because I am NOT smooth, and then the first time I spoke to her, I talked about beavers."

Seth paused and considered this.

"You talked about her beaver? That's probably a little forward, but if used in the right context, could have been a turn on I guess."

"No Seth. Beavers. Like the kind that gnaw on trees? I talked to her about beavers."

Seth stared at him as if he had three heads.

Edward let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and pulled a coffee mug out of the cabinet, letting the china clang loudly on the granite, avoiding Seth's condescending stare. He stared into himself and determined that he probably wasn't a savant, but that he was a likely candidate for Aspergers Syndrome. He drank the hot coffee, letting it scorch the self-loathing in the pit of his stomach.

"Edward, Edward, Edward… You over-educated, sad, sad man." Seth shook his head in disgust.

Edward couldn't agree with him more.

"Might I just ask, what in the world would possess you to go up to a beautiful girl, one you've been obsessing over, and start talking about beavers?"

Seth looked genuinely curious. Like he was trying to make sense of how someone could be so socially backward, which made Edward feel worse.

"Seth, I needed an in to talk to her. I saw her sitting on a boulder by this humongous pine that beavers took a bite out of, that would look dangerous to most people, and that gave me my chance to say something to her. Christ, I'm not as charismatic as you are. Girls don't just drop their panties because I wink at them, alright? Maybe discussing beavers is the best I can do!"

"Maybe if you would have known more about the other kind of beaver when you were in high school you wouldn't be in this tortured mess," Seth muttered under his breath.

"Seth, can you try and be helpful, please?"

"It's textbook cause and effect. Consider your dating history then look in a fucking mirror."

Edward closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Noted."

Seth had his feet propped up on the coffee table with a bottle of Mirror Pond in his lap, watching the game, happier than a pig in shit. Conversely, Edward was sitting on the floor, pulling his hair out in frustration.

Edward had decided with Seth's encouragement that he would write Bella. She obviously was passionate about writing. Since all he could manage to do around her was wink like an asshole and discuss beaver feeding habits, maybe written communication was the way to go. It was more of a therapy exercise than anything. Like writing a letter to someone so you can learn about yourself and then you never give it to them. Only if it was something really good would he consider handing her what he wrote. Or if he chickened out, tucking it in the wiper-blades of her car when they were both on the trail.

"Edward, you've been working on this for an hour. You're a smart dude. You wrote a thesis in college. You have to have something, and it's probably not half as bad as you think it is. Lay it on me."

"First of all, my thesis was on the geochemistry of volcanic rocks from Central Oregon, not on the art of seduction. Secondly… there is no secondly. I have nothing."

"Get over yourself. Let me hear what you have."

"You want to hear what I have?" Edward challenged.

"Yes!"

"Fine!" Edward growled.

He cleared his throat, puffed his chest out, and began:

"I want to fuck you like an animal."

Seth waited for him to continue. Or to at least say he was joking.

Edward put his paper down and shrugged.

"That's all you have?! It's not even yours, dickhead."

Seth put his beer down and sat up.

"That's Nine Inch Nails. What the hell is wrong with you? You have to seduce her with your words. Tell her something intriguing. Something to get her wet. Like Nora Roberts shit. You can't just tell a woman that you've had one pathetic conversation with that you want to fuck her like an animal. And at least have the decency to be original."

Seth shook his head in disgust and Edward followed suit. He knew this. Of course he knew all this, and that's why he was so frustrated.

"You've got to think about how she makes you feel and break it down in exact detail so she can feel what you feel," Seth continued.

"You think me breaking down for her exactly what happens when I'm near her is a good idea? It would go something like this:

'Bella, I see you and my dick gets hard. I wonder what you're writing about when you squirm on the picnic bench and my dick gets hard. And you know what, Bella? I think that if you squirmed like that while looking me in the eye while I jogged past I would pretty much cum in my jogging shorts. Would you like to go to dinner with me?'

You want to talk about cause and effect, Seth? I see her. My body responds. How can I elaborate eloquently about that?"

Seth raised his beer in a mock toast and said, "Here's to honesty."

Edward kicked Seth's feet off the coffee table and in doing so sloshed beer down the front of Seth's shirt.

"Cause and effect, douche bag."

Edward retreated to his room, away from Seth, to try his hand again at writing something for Bella, and he gave up. But he gave up in a good way. On his terms. He realized that while he was hoping to be able to connect with Bella by writing, it just wasn't going to work. Trying to force something on pen and paper felt unnatural. It just wasn't him. What was communication anyway? In our society speech and hearing is probably the most commonly used form because it is direct. Body-language is open for interpretation, so it's not as effective. Writing is effective if you are lucky enough to be able to emote that way. There is another form of communication, he mused. One he hadn't tried yet with Bella. He obviously had verbal diarrhea around her, and he had also proven that he couldn't write. What other form of communication do you have when you take away the eyes for seeing written word, and the voice box and auditory system for receiving spoken word, and the brain for interpreting both? Touch was a form of communication. As much as he'd like to seduce her by writing about it or verbalizing it, he would have to do this his way... and show her. And once he made that decision, all the awkwardness and lack of confidence regarding Bella evaporated, and in its place was a hunger and eagerness to see her again. He walked out of his room relieved that he was finally on the right path. Gone was this stupid need to stay away from her, all in the name of self-preservation. Gone was the idiotic idea that staying away was even an option. He wanted her, and he had nothing to lose by going for it. Somewhere inside there was a nagging knowledge that this spurt of confidence may fade and he was likely to go back and forth on this but in this moment, hope drowned all that out. He walked out into the living room a new man.

"You look better. Coffee finally kick in?"

"Maybe," Edward answered, and the corner of his mouth turned up. "I've decided I'm not going to write her anything."

"New plan?"

"Yeah. I'm going to show her."

"Show her what?"

"Show her physically what I'm trying to communicate. I can't speak or write. I'll just show her physically what I want to say."

"Oh, so you're going to maul her. That's great."

Edward rolled his eyes. "No. I'm not going to 'maul' her. I am going to… kiss her."

"So you're going to walk up to her and just… kiss her."

"Yep."

"Huh…it's a good thing you're pretty."

"I know that the plan is not polished, but I will figure it out when the moment is right."

Seth gave Edward that politely curious look again, wondering how one person could be so socially backward.

Wanting a change of subject, Edward asked Seth how the game went.

"I didn't even finish it. I got distracted by the paper".

"What's in the paper?"

"Do you want to go to Portland this weekend?" Seth asked.

"What's the catch?"

"Well ok, there's a book signing at Powell's on Saturday, and my kid really wants to go and get the autograph of the author of these books he's been reading." He showed Edward the newspaper clipping.

_Saturday_, Edward thought. The one day he was almost for sure to see Bella, forfeited to hike to Portland to go to a kid's book convention. He looked reluctantly back at Seth.

"No. Not this weekend."

"Edward, I wouldn't ask, but it's just that Eli has been begging me, and I don't know the area as well as you. Plus—" Seth avoided Edward's gaze, knowing that he was about to bring out the big guns. "Victoria has withdrawn herself from Eli again. The usual, not being present for him, and it's really bumming him out. He needs this trip to Portland."

And Edward knew that by 'he' Seth meant 'we'.

The relationship between Victoria and Seth had been short and the only thing good to come of it was Eli. Victoria just didn't want to be a mother and was doing a fabulous job of disappointing Eli and Seth with every time she withdrew.

How could Edward say no when Seth played the Victoria card? He loved that kid like a little brother and couldn't deny him anything, especially when his deadbeat mother was living up to the title. He wasn't happy that he would have to miss seeing Bella this weekend though.

"Ok. Who's this novelist anyway?"

"Isabella Marie Swan. She's actually a local. But every parent who has a pre-teen knows of her books. She's really done well for herself. You've never heard of her?"

"Isabella Swan? Nope. Doesn't ring a bell."

* * *

_"Edward!" he gasped.__ "My name...uhng...is__Edward!"_

_Our energies were united and the balance of power had just shifted in my favor with his admission.__ I felt triumphant in an instant then realized I wasn't in the mood to be in control just now.__ So I did the only thing that made sense._

_I stopped._

_Without warning, I let the hand that was manipulating his cock fall limply by my side. And on the other side of the heat in my eyes laid defiance._

_He stood there gasping for breath, vibrating from head to toe._

"_Bella," Edward growled. And his hand found my wrist and assumed the authority he started with when he backed me into the shower. _

"_I don't remember telling you to stop stroking me," and instead of replacing my hand with his own, he just let his twitching dick hang suspended in the air, searching for friction it wouldn't find, and placed his hands on both my shoulders and spun me around._

"_If your wrist was getting tired of tugging and twisting me then maybe your hands will be more comfortable on the wall."_

_And I was now facing the shower stall wall, leaning forward, my hands and forearms holding up my body weight. It was then I felt his massive cock press against my backside. _

_I couldn't help it, I was so turned on by his dirty talk and dominance I didn't care who had the power. Edward had the dick. I had the pussy. And for the second time in a mater of minutes I did the only thing that made sense._

_I pressed my backside into his length…forcefully._

_He moaned, and I felt him shudder. I didn't think either one of us would be able to torture the other much longer before we both caved. He was thinking along the same lines._

"_Bella, where do you want me?" he grunted._

_I began to speak when he put his hand over my mouth_

"_No. _Where _do you want me?"_

_I understood and removed a hand from the wall and reached down in between my legs and dipped a finger around my entrance to spread the moisture that had pooled there. Since he was inches behind me I slid my fingers further back underneath me until they made contact with his cock. _

_He sucked in a breath._

_I placed his head at my entrance. _

_His hand moved from my mouth to grasp where my neck meets my shoulder in a full hands-palm grip and using that grip for leverage, thrust himself inside me, completely sheathing himself in one slick motion._

"Hey Bella, there's something in the mail for you." Rose interrupted my train of thought.

"Ok Rose, I'll be there in a sec."

"The package is from MyToy-gasm dot com…?"

Without missing a beat or even considering whether or not to be embarrassed, I replied, "Yeah, it's an iVibe rabbit waterproof g-spot master ten inch cock vibrator with a two inch diameter and 3 rotating speeds. It's fuchsia." .

"Well, well. I don't think even _Edward's_ cock could be up to those specifications."

"I'll never know, will I?" I replied bitterly.

"Never say never." Rose winked. "How's your writing going anyway?"

"It was going really well until you barged in. Hey! Don't open that!"

Rose put the poor-substitute-for-Edward's-cock package down.

"We need to talk about the Portland trip."

I let out an audible groan.

"Bella, it's really good PR, and it means a lot to your fans".

"I know, I know. Don't worry Rose," I sighed, "I will behave."

_I will not behave. I removed my hands from the wall where he had placed them and reached above my head to fist his hair in my hands as he pounded into me. I pulled him closer, and he bit the top of my shoulder. My back arched and I thrust my ass towards him, bringing him further into me. _

Just one day in Portland, but of course, it had to be a Saturday. My only sure day to see Edward, taken from me. During my sleepless nights, I felt frustrated and hopeless. But in the daytime, and while I was writing, I felt _powerful_. I felt like I was gaining momentum with Edward, even if it was hopeless. And Saturday I wouldn't be there like I had been consistently for the last three months. Did he pay me enough attention to notice habits like that? Would he be jogging on the trail and wonder where I was Saturday? Would he wonder when he'd see me again? _I wanted him to wonder when he'd see me again._

_My body was quivering with the need for release, and I knew Edward could feel I was close. He wrapped his arms around my torso and one hand found my clit while the other pinched my nipple. The force of his orgasm rocked me into my own. His teeth still digging into my shoulder, his body falling limp against mine, we both gasped for breath and let the water from the shower run cold. He pulled out of me gently and rested his chin on my shoulder and asked,_

"_Bella, when will I see you again?"_

"Bella! Seriously! Portland!"

"Ok, ok, I'm coming!"

Bella closed her notebook and began to discuss the details with Rose with what could only be an uneventful, boring book signing in her least favorite city, spending the day apart from her most favorite muse.

**A/****N: What will Edward's reaction be when he finds out Isabella Swan is **_**his**_** Bella? Will Bella see Edward in the crowd? Oh the possibilities…Pretty please review because I crave it. **


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: I apologize if my accounts of Portland are not entirely accurate. I also apologize for the slow update but I re-worked this chapter so many times and didn't want to post until I felt really good about it. Hope you enjoy! As always, I would love to hear from you. Weepwah, you are my goddess. **

I fucking hate Portland. There are several reasons why and the obvious ones are these: It's under constant cloud cover and rain. It has the highest suicide rate in the country—big shocker. And it's just a sad Seattle wannabe. The elephant-in-the-room reason is that Portland is where Jasper and I shared a life together before it went to shit. Just being on the west side of Mt. Hood reminded me of how unhappy I allowed myself to be. I personified Portland and held a grudge against it for being the setting of some truly miserable times. How can I hold a grudge against a city for being the backdrop for my failed marriage? I don't know how, but I did. I stewed about this while I contemplated what to pack in my day bag. To show my readers that I do appreciate their support I have decided it is in my best interest to do the signing but I am not happy about it. I hear Rose's horn honk for the second time and know I'd better get downstairs. With one last look in the mirror and a swipe of lip gloss, I'm out the door.

The drive over is uneventful. State law dictates you have to carry chains for your tires when you drive over the mountain pass, but thankfully, they were unnecessary today. I wouldn't know how to put them on anyway. I am glad Rose is driving so I can look out the window. It is beautiful. Transitioning from high desert, to mountain wilderness, to the Pacific Northwest climate, all in a three hour time span. Portland has one redeeming spot, I mused, and that is the rose garden. I so loved the rose garden. It is maintained year-round and has every variety of rose imaginable, and in May, the rhododendrons bloom as big as your head. But it's not May. It's September, and there is no real reason to make a special trip up to Washington Park to see the few roses that may be in bloom. As far as I was concerned, I wanted to get in and get out as fast as possible and get back to the high desert sun that I loved. _And back to my Saturdays spent by the river gazing at Edward. _

"Bella, I know you have a stick up your ass because you don't get to eye-fuck Jogger McJoggerson today. I am not underestimating your loathing of Portland…" Rose said as she rolled her eyes, "…but I don't think you'd be this pissy if we didn't have to come here on a Saturday."

I never want to listen to Rose, especially not when she's right. I didn't realize that I was allowing my sour attitude to permeate the atmosphere in her SUV. Maybe the fact I've been staring out the window with a scowl on my face, not saying a word for the past hour was a tip off. I immediately feel guilty. After all, Rose didn't have to come with me, but she did because I asked her to. Say what you will about Rose and her bitchy-ness but she is loyal. I turn on the iPod to try and find some happy music as Tori Amos starts streaming through the car speakers. I smile at the irony. She is singing Raspberry Swirl, the song that was playing the first night I wrote about Edward McJoggerson. _Ok. So I really need to find out his last name._

_things are getting desperate_  
_when all the boys can't be men_  
_everybody knows I'm her friend_  
_everybody knows I'm her man_

"This song is pretty hot," Rose observed. "She's singing this song for another girl, right?"

"Yeah. Wanna hook up if we're both 50 and spinsters?"

"Only if you guarantee sex three times a week."

"Deal."

Powells is one of the prides of Portland. It's a legendary, local bookstore. It smelled like a bookstore should smell. Old, a little dusty, like paper and glue. Being here felt more disjointed than I was expecting. Being so immersed in my erotica lately; I wasn't in the same frame of mind when I wrote the children's books that led me to today's signing. The last thing I'd written was the steamy shower scene, the moment of power reversal between my two characters. The book I'm doing the signing for was about magic gardens that grew gigantic bubbles that never popped. The good triumphed over evil, and there was always a happy ending, whereas my story would be unresolved. I was showing up today, and that's about all I could say. Being a children's novelist was not my passion at the moment. Maybe I'd get in the mood when fans showed up and reminded me why I did what I did for a living. I started to unload the back of Rose's SUV full of book materials and wondered, as I set up the display, how many people would turn out today. I wondered if the professor of children's literature, whose calls I'd been dodging, would show up and ask me again about the workshop he wanted me to teach. And most of all, I wondered what Edward was doing right now.

Edward was standing in the parking lot outside of Powell's bookstore asking why he let himself perpetually get sucked into this stuff. Eli ran up to him and wrapped his tiny arms around Edward's waist, the excitement rolling off him in waves. Edward remembered this is why he let himself get sucked in. Moments like this. The sky threatened rain, but for now, it was just overcast and gray. On the drive up, Edward perused the books Eli had brought with him to be signed. Although the latest in the saga had only been released within the last few months, it looked almost as worn as the rest of them.

"Are these your favorite books?" Edward inquired.

"Yes! I love them!" Eli turned around and answered with enthusiasm.

"What is it that you love so much about them?"

"They have bubbles that grow to the size of a house that can protect you from the wicked monsters!"

_Ah, to be a kid again_, Edward mused.

Between Terrebone and Warm Springs, Edward skimmed through the first three books and was impressed. Eli could be playing mindless video games all day like some of his peers but chose to spend his time reading instead. And these books seemed to have good, solid messages about morals and values— from a young heroine's perspective. Eli sure wasn't getting those strong female-figure messages from his mother, so at least he was getting them somewhere. And Edward was impressed with the underlying wit that adults who read the books would get but younger audiences would not.

Edward snapped back to the present at the sound of Eli calling his name, grabbed the books from the backseat, and after putting change in the parking meter, followed Seth and Eli inside.

Powells looked like it always did except there was a wide table set up to the left of the cafe. It was surrounded by displays and banners, and he recognized the cover art from Eli's books. They were early, and obviously the author wasn't out yet, but other fans were starting to line up, so he figured he shouldn't drift very far, physically. Mentally, his thoughts were drifting to Bella. _Would she be at the trail today? What would she be writing about? Would he ever get to know the answers to these maddening questions?_ He couldn't help but feel he was missing something. Bella was a puzzle and part of the attraction was solving the mystery. He hated being away from her today.

The tension was starting to mount inside the bookstore. Hushed murmurs were filling the store with anticipation of Isabella Swan making her appearance. The whole room was buzzing and the mob mentality was contagious. Edward, having no emotional investment in the books, couldn't help but feel the excitement for the writer about to come out on the makeshift stage.

And then she did.

And several things happened in very quick succession:

Edward dropped his coffee

He ignored Seth's jackass comment about him being a klutz

He apologized to the woman standing beside him that it splashed on

And then he excused himself

Lastly, he remembered how to breathe.

Once he was in the back of the audience he raised his eyes again to the stage.

There she was, in plain sight, unmistakable.

Trail writer girl, a.k.a. Bella. Bella _Swan._ Bella, short for Isabella, _of course_.

In the corner of his brain he registered that the initials on her bag he saw that one day on the trail were BMW not BMS but he couldn't bother himself with what that meant now. He had to digest the shock of this first.

He was a shadow in the crowd, in the back of the audience where no one would notice or care that he was having a moment. He pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on his shoelaces. He chuckled when he thought of how bummed he was when he thought he wouldn't be seeing Bella this weekend. After being able to laugh at the irony, he felt human enough to listen to what she was saying. Still looking at his shoelaces he began to listen and realized he was mesmerized not only by her beauty, her mannerisms, her mysterious quality, but by her intellect as well— something he was not able to directly observe on the trail. This was something he was very pleased to find. She fielded questions with grace, intelligence, and wit. She was dressed in wide-leg khakis and a long cardigan sweater with a funky print tank top underneath. He was surprised when she inconspicuously reached down and unbuckled her platform suede pumps and sat cross-legged on the stage and began to read a passage from her book. He was expecting Birkenstocks, not suede platforms. He looked around and noticed he wasn't the only one enthralled. The way she sat barefoot on the stage reminded him of how he'd witnessed her on a few occasions kicking off her shoes and dipping her feet in the river. He felt a private connection with her because he alone observed her on the trail kicking off her shoes, sitting barefoot. He reveled in this new feeling which he could only define as _possession. _All the body language he was reading today did NOT remind him of how she squirmed on the picnic bench sometimes. This bothered him. He now knew that she was a professional writer which would explain her writing on the trail so often but it did NOT explain why she looked so turned on sometimes while writing. He was fairly certain she wasn't writing children's literature on the trail. _So what was she writing?_

He weaved through the crowd and found Seth and Eli to listen to the rest of the talk. There were so many people there, and she was likely not to recognize him. The talk ended, Eli ran to get in line to have his books signed, and Edward hung back with Seth. He had already decided that he could not leave her alone so there was really no point in waiting. She was finishing up with the last few patrons and Edward made his way towards the back of the café where she was likely to head when she was finished. His decision to "show" her what he was feeling all of the sudden seemed like the dumbest idea ever. _What kind of a plan was that?_ Well, he had to do something even if he had no idea what. The nervousness was creeping in and his mouth was dry. He made his way over to the drinking fountain to get a drink of water. That's when he heard her.

"Bella, I scored us a sweet room at the Benson as a thank you for coming out today. There are Jacuzzi tubs in all the suites. What do you say to a glass of wine and a bubble bath? It's ours if we want it."

"Rose, I don't know."

"Hon, I know you hate this town, but we haven't had a sleepover in so long."

Bella considered this for a moment, knowing that Rose understood her hatred for Portland and wouldn't keep her here a moment longer if there wasn't a catch.

"Rose?"

Knowing Bella would figure it out, Rose decided to cave. "Well, ok. You may have gotten an offer to do a creative writing workshop here in the spring and you may have accepted."

"Rose!"

"It's just a four hour workshop. And it's not even on a Saturday so you won't have to agonize over not seeing Jogger Mc-"

Bella cut her off, "You just lost yourself a night of sex."

"Aw Bella, that is cold."

They continued to converse but Edward didn't hear any of it. His heart fell to his toes. Of course she wasn't squirming on the picnic bench for him. And when she bit her lip or pencil and smiled to herself at a private amusement it wasn't for him. Or any _him_. It was for _her_. Rose. Bella's partner. In a parallel world Edward would be so turned on now listening to Bella and Rose describe their desire for a "sleepover" and for a bubble bath and for… sex. As it was, Edward was dejected more than he'd ever felt before. He was hidden behind the divider between the restroom area where the drinking fountain was and the lobby. Survival became the primal instinct and Edward was looking for a way out. He was about to make a move on Bella. How humiliating would that have been! He didn't want to run into her now. _Please, God, not now_. His mouth was dry again not because of nerves but because his fight or flight response was kicking in and his body was more interested in the "flight" than the "fight." Mercifully, it sounded like Bella and Rose were gone, so he made a dash towards the exit. Seth caught his arm on the way out and stated he needed to take a leak before the drive back to Bend and could he please watch Eli. Trying to distract himself, Edward put his arm on the boy's shoulder and crouched down and asked to see his signed copies. To hear the kid so energetic would keep him focused until he could get in the car and process losing Bella. He gripped Eli's shoulder harder and closed his eyes in pain. _Losing Bella._ How can losing something you never had be painful?

BPOV

She would recognize that bronze wavy mop anywhere, even in the throngs of hundreds of people, in a city 160 miles away from the Deschutes River trail. Just because she would recognize him anywhere doesn't mean she was prepared to see him anywhere. She could handle the shock and the flush in her cheeks and the weakness in her knees. That was just endorphins and adrenaline throwing her system out of whack for a second to two. Shock was something she could recover from. What she _couldn't _recover from came next. He knelt down and in a very fatherly embrace put a hand on a youngster's shoulder, totally engaged in what the child was telling him only as a father would be. He had a kid. A _young _kid. Of course he did. He was too beautiful not to be claimed. Not to be part of a happy, healthy family. Her heart broke. She already mourned over the impossibility of having him but the finality of this was bone-crushing. On autopilot, she packed up her materials and got into Rose's SUV. It was a three hour drive back, and luckily Rose didn't make her explain why she was turning down the free hotel tonight and was willing to make the drive back to Bend in the dark. Luckily for both of them, it _was_ dark, which meant Rose didn't see the silent tears streaming down Bella's face.

**A/N: Oh the confusion and incorrect assumptions! Will these two ever get it together? **


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thanks to weepwah for her knowledge of all things grammatical**

Disclaimer: Not mine

I believe in you and me  
I'm coming to find you  
If it takes me all night  
Wrong until you make it right  
-The Killers

* * *

It was a long drive back to Bend. She'd made this drive a million times but this was the longest three hour trip down the mountain she could remember. She was trapped in a moving car, just like her feelings were held captive within her chest. She did not have the freedom to run screaming. She did not have the liberty to sob and shake. All she could do was stew and mourn in the confines of her own skin as Rose drove, oblivious beside her. She didn't want Rose to pick up on her despair so she put on her brave face and just concentrated on getting home. _One hour down, two to go. _She still had her fictional Edward. That's all she ever had. _Two hours down, one to go._ Having her fictional Edward was all she would ever have and that would just have to be enough somehow.

It was so late when they got back that Rose made herself at home in the guest bedroom. The three hours had numbed Bella to the point where the need to scream and sob had passed. She was almost catatonic when she walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water and scowled at the un-opened vibrator package mocking her on the kitchen counter. She needed emotional release right now, not physical release. She walked past the brown package and went straight to her writing desk. She was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, yet she was compelled to open her notebook. She was separated from Edward. She could never have him. Her head felt heavy, as did the weight in her heart. She fell asleep at some point between the pages.

_She sees her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall facing her.__ She's never been here before, but it feels familiar. The room is dimly lit, and she is alone. It is not a small space, but has an intimate feel. The walls are quilted blood red leather, and there is a solitary ebony chair in the middle of the room. She walked to it and brushed her fingers over the high back. There is a private bar in the corner. She walks over and pours herself three fingers of whiskey. It burned going down. She'd never much cared for the stuff and wondered why she chose to pour it when unexpectedly she wasn't alone. There he stood opposite her. Somehow the room had doubled in size, and the mirror was gone. It was then that she realized the mirror was never a true mirror, but a crystal glass divider that __only appeared dark before the light was turned on in the adjacent room. The room he is in is identical to hers. She knows where she is suddenly and wondered where all the people were. They are in a trendy spot downtown where dancers usually danced in__ these rooms for the crowds below, but the dancers were always backlit so you could only see their silhouette as the music thumped. But the club is empty and it is silent._

He is painfully beautiful.

_The sexiest man she'd ever seen. Just looking at him made her feel alive.__His bronze hair is tousled and he is looking at her curiously, as if he's just as surprised to be here as she is. She takes a step closer to him and a low, rhythmic music starts but she can't localize where the music is coming from. It seemed to be coming from within. Portishead. He looks at her through the glass and rakes her body with his eyes. Up until this moment she was unaware of what she was wearing. She looks down and sees she is in a black mini-dress and heels. It's quite flattering, and she's taken aback. She doesn't remember owning anything like it. He begins to unbutton his black shirt very slowly never breaking contact with her eyes, and slips it off his shoulders. She wasn't aware that she had unzipped her dress until she felt the slight chill of the air hitting her back. He removes his shirt at the same moment she steps out of her dress. She has matching black lingerie on underneath but he does not look at what has been revealed, nor does she. Their eyes are locked. Again, very slowly he moves towards her. She feels the magnetic pull and her feet carry themselves forward on their own accord. They are standing an inch apart. He lifts a hand up to cup her face but stops short and ghosts his fingers over her collarbone, and down the side of her arm, never actually making contact with her skin. It doesn't matter. She feels it. And goose bumps erupt in the wake of his almost touches.__His breathing is heavier, his eyes more intense, black with desire, and this time his hand ghosts over her throat, at an achingly slow pace down between her breasts. He pauses here, her nipples tighten but he's still not touching her. _Why won't he touch her?_ His path continues down to her navel and then stops at the top of her panties. His fingers are millimeters away from her skin. She could feel the tickle of the lace against her stomach and got another round of goosebumps, annoyed by the fabric covering her. _How could she feel a touch that wasn't there? Why won't he close the distance and touch her?_ His eyes were on fire. She leaned in to place an open mouth kiss on his chest and was surprised when her vision clouded. Her hot breath fogged up the glass and only then did she remember there was a barrier between them. Instead of using his fingers he used his mouth to trace a trail from her shoulder to her breast, and down to her hip bone. All the while leaving fogged up marks on the glass. She knew she was imagining it but she could feel the heat of his breath through the glass on her skin. He rose so their eyes were level again and mouthed, "Come here." There was nothing she wanted more. She attempted a step forward only to jam the toe of her shoe into the glass. Her brow furrowed in confusion and she lifted her hands to take his hand in hers only to bump her knuckles into the unyielding crystal. Her confusion quickly turned to panic and she splayed her palms flat on the glass and began pounding, trying to get through to the other side. He stared back at her with an expressionless gaze and repeated, "Come here." _

"_I can't! I can't! The wall… I can't get to you!" she shouted as she continued to desperately pound her palms into the glass._

"I CAN'T! I CAN'T!"

"Shhh… Bella! It's ok. Calm down."

"I CAN'T HAVE HIM! I CAN'T HAVE HIM!"

"Shhh… you were having a bad dream."

Rose was laying beside Bella smoothing down her hair.

"It's okay Bella. You're okay," Rose said in a calming voice.

Bella looked around. She was in her bedroom and her notebook was on the floor. The clock on the nightstand read 3:05am. She remembered her dream. She couldn't reach Edward. She couldn't have him. Bella became aware of the heaviness of her heart again and tried to sooth it with a few deep breaths.

"Sorry I woke you Rose. Thanks for coming in. I'll be ok."

"You're a horrible liar, Bella. Tell me what's going on."

Bella considered whether or not to tell Rose about what she saw at the bookstore. Edward, with his son. It seemed that lately crappy news was all she had to tell, and she didn't want to unload more on Rose than she already had. Rose had heard all about how Jasper wasn't being husband of the year. Then during the divorce, Rose was there to cheer her up. And she was also there during the ensuing depression. Bella couldn't bring herself to, in the middle of the night, tell Rose the reason for her despair. It could wait. Rose would roll her eyes and say, "That's what friends are for," but Bella knew their relationship had been one-sided during this last year and felt like holding her tongue this once.

"It was just a bad dream Rose. Thanks for checking on me."

Rose left the room with a worried expression on her face and shut the door.

Bella picked up her notebook and put it on the writing desk so she wouldn't trip on it in the morning. Of course she wasn't ok. She was thankful Rose decided not to press her on it. She felt for the first time in months the unmistakable signs of depression creeping in. The familiar weight of it. And it was easy to let it in and wash over her. So much easier than fighting. So she surrendered to the darkness.

The minutes turned into hours and the hours into days. Things were… bad again. It was now Saturday morning, a full seven days after the book signing, and Bella was on the kitchen floor staring at her notebook. _That stupid little notebook_. She should pick herself up off the floor and eat. Or shower. Or both. She should also start working again but that thought depressed her more. She wasn't ready to give up on her personal fantasy yet. She began sobbing. She'd been here before, so many times, that she intuitively knew there would be some small relief when the tears were out. So she allowed it. As shitty as it felt to not be able to stop crying, it created a numbness once the tears dried out. And in a depression, numbness equated to peace and calm, even if it was accompanied by hopelessness. When her stomach hurt from crying so hard, she sat up. And there it was. The last sniffle, the last shaky breath. The calm. She was done crying and she felt some fight. She went into the bathroom and splashed cool water on her face, welcoming the contrast of heated skin and cool wet. She patted her face dry and decided she would do one thing for herself today. She would go to the trail. She needed to breathe the pine-scented air and hear the rush of the rapids. She needed to be reminded that she fell in love with the river before the idea of _him. _It was _her_ place, _her_ sanctuary, and it was a healing place. She didn't bother with a shower or anything else, she just left with her notebook and headed to the only place she could think of to ease her pain.

EPOV

The sight of her makes his heart ache. For two reasons. First of all, she looks miserable, and he wants to go to her and wrap her in his arms and make her eyes spark again. Secondly, he aches selfishly because he knows she can never be his. The "show her" plan was lying dormant in the depths of his heart.

She is sitting underneath the bridge again, where he first saw her so many months ago. Her spark is gone. Her eyes look dead and flat. She slams her notebook shut and drops her head back against the steel beam of the bridge. He wonders if she is fighting with Rose. He cares more about this than he should. He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter if she was fighting with Rose because it didn't change anything. Whether she was a lesbian or bi, or straight, it didn't matter, she was in a relationship. But the truth was, her happiness mattered to him because he needed her. _When did that happen? When did he start needing her? _Somewhere along the way in the last three months his jogging routine had been thrown off course not only because of her intoxicating presence, but because he relied on her smile, her warmth to warm his smile, to warm his soul. If her spark was gone, his was too. He needed her light to guide him. Only a fool would give another person so much power. He relied on her too much to put the hitch in his stride. Just by her mere presence. You have to make yourself happy, he knew that. You can't rely on anyone else to do that for you; it's dangerous to do so. It's been a long time since he thought of what would make him happy. _She would make you happy_. Shit! Around in circles again. His brain was stuck on her. Edward up to this point had relied on his brain heavily. It got him through school, scholarships, a coveted post-doc position, and he was very successful in his field. For the first time he wanted nothing more than to sever his brain from his body.

He looks up at her again, her head still resting on the wall, with her eyes shut. Even in her despair she is so beautiful. She lifts her head, wipes a tear from her cheek and clutches her notebook to her chest. She stands, stretches, and makes her way back to the path. He watched her leave and was ready to make his way back to the path himself when something caught his eye. A piece of notebook paper that must have fallen out when she slammed her notebook shut was now trapped in a sagebrush. He was on the other side of the river but only a quarter of a mile from the footbridge. He considered what may be written on that page and realized he had no clue. He felt like someone just told him that he was going to be opening Pandora's box but instead of unleashing destruction, he would be unlocking all the answers he longed for. He felt the adrenaline rush vibrate through his body. If there was a God, that piece of notebook paper would still be there after he ran like hell through the brush to get it.

He crossed the bridge in what had to have been his personal best time and ran through the brush until he saw the solitary page whipping back and forth in the breeze. He freed it from its confines, and with shaky hands, kneeled on his haunches and began to read…

_My body was quivering with the need for release and I knew Edward could feel I was close. He wrapped his arms around my torso and one hand found my clit while the other pinched my nipple. The force of his orgasm rocked me into my own. His teeth still digging into my shoulder, his body falling limp against mine, we both gasped for breath and let the water from the shower run cold. He pulled out of me gently and rested his chin on my shoulder and asked,_

"_Bella, when will I see you again?"_

Her words went straight to his cock. Then a moment later, his brain. In this moment, he was very happy to have his brain intact because it was processing a mile a minute. In his eagerness to solve the mystery that was Bella, he was never able to draw any conclusions about what Bella might be writing. Always asking the question, always shooting entirely in the dark. She could be writing about _anything._ Any guesses of his would have been futile and always knowing that, he never tried to figure it out; he had nothing to go on. _Nothing._ Well, now he had something. Writing erotica would explain why she bit down on her lip and squirmed on the picnic bench sometimes. He was at this moment, adjusting himself at the thought of all the times he remembered Bella on the picnic bench. _Bella imagining herself being sexually satisfied._ This piece of the puzzle made sense, so he tucked it away and out of mind.

He then allowed his brain to tackle the other two parts of the puzzle, the most confusing. The object of her fantasies was not a woman, as he would have expected, but a man. _What did this mean?_ Could he have misinterpreted the interchange between her and Rose at the book signing? It wouldn't be the first time he got something wrong. He tried to remember their exact dialogue, but all he could recall was being so distraught that he didn't hear how their conversation ended. There was definitely a possibility he misjudged their friendship. Oh shit. He was allowing himself to hope as he considered the final piece of the puzzle. He looked down at the page and read again…

_My body was quivering with the need for release and I knew Edward could feel I was close. _

The man who fulfilled Bella's fantasies on the page shared his name. _Could this be a coincidence?_ He juggled the puzzle pieces in his fingers, twisting them, trying them in different places. Caught up in analysis, he sat on the rocky earth for minutes before moving. _Could it be that she wanted him like he wanted her? _He thought back on the few times they had met. He remembered the electric shock of her touch and her warm smile when they shook hands. Maybe he had reason to hope. _More than maybe. _Confidence is a tricky thing, and Edward was a guarded optimist. He gave himself permission to let his guard fall and believe she was writing this with him in mind. The more he considered it, the more justified he felt in believing it to be true. Her use of his name was _not_ a coincidence. He folded the piece of paper, put it in his pocket, and paused, smiling up at the Central Oregon mountain skyline.

The "show her" plan was back into effect.

**A/N: I am working on the next chapter and it is already TWICE as long as most of my other chapters. Please review and tell me what you think:) **


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